neat hair and sensible clothes, for his sobriety and his work ethic, for being pro the Vietnam War and for his membership of a right-wing political society—they even mocked him for the virginal state of his dick. He suffered it all with his usual stubborn silence, but I knew he hated them for it, and hated everything about their lifestyle. To no one’s surprise, when he finished his degree he joined an accountancy firm. Moreover, he joined the Liberal Party. And yet he
still
hadn’t bothered to move out of home.
Me—after failing arts, I started an architecture degree, in which I managed to scrape passes for two years. Not out of any genuine interest, but it was better than conscription for Vietnam. Thankfully, the Whitlam government came along in 1972, and I could safely drop out of uni to take up intermittent pub work, or work waiting tables, or labouring, or whatever else looked like easy money for a while. I didn’t have a clue about what I really wanted to do with my life. In fact, apart from my disastrous first marriage—childless, thank heavens—I don’t think I took a damn thing seriously for the rest of the seventies.
Bernard . . . Well, I don’t suppose he had his life planned out exactly either. But deep in his gloomy dreams he must have yearned for authority. He could see the world going to pot even as he emerged into it. And like many a long-suffering conservative all around the world in those wild and free days, no doubt he was even then plotting his revenge.
It was a while coming, but oh lord, when it did come . . .
NINE
Another day, another basement.
I was becoming a connoisseur of them—and this one, I had to admit, was much better than the first. No bare walls or dirt floor or dingy light bulb. This room was large and carpeted and well lit, with comfortable couches and a bathroom off to one side. There was even a studded leather bar in the corner, vintage 1970s. The shelves behind it were empty, alas, but the wall did at least boast a neon beer sign. (‘Brisbane Bitter’ it said, which to my knowledge hasn’t been brewed in several decades.)
It was someone’s snooker room. Sans table. Which was fine, really, because there was no one down there for me to shoot pool with, apart from Nancy Campbell (sans burqa), and I doubt that she would have been interested. Not that I would have trusted her with a cue in her hand anyway.
And where was this place, you ask, interrogators dear?
Good question.
It was the same old story. The men who carried out the ambush were all masked with balaclavas. (I’m talking about the second ambush here, the one in which the AFP were the ambushees, not the ambushers. Ludicrous, really—I don’t think even back in the bushranger days had one road cutting ever seen so much action.) Then, in all the shooting and screaming and confusion, me and the naked Nancy Campbell found ourselves bundled into the back of the van (the AFP van, now appropriated, not the postal van) and driven at breakneck speed for maybe half an hour to who knows where. They’d put bags over our heads right from the start. Professionals, these boys.
At the end it seemed that we pulled into a garage. Then we were hurried through a house and down some stairs and, when the bags came off, there was the ‘Brisbane Bitter’ sign to greet me. And five men, dressed in civilian garb, but still in balaclavas, still with their guns. They dumped some clothes on the floor for my burqa-less friend, and then left, locking the door behind them. All throughout I’d been yelling questions at them—who were they, what did they want, what the fuck was going on? Not one of them had spoken a word.
So there we were. Me and my would-be executioner.
‘Well then,’ I said, after prowling about the room for a time, and verifying that there was no escape, no alcohol, and nothing else to do but talk. ‘Nancy.’
She was slumped in a beanbag. (This room was strictly retro.) The clothes they had given her
still
hadn’t bothered to move out of home.
Me—after failing arts, I started an architecture degree, in which I managed to scrape passes for two years. Not out of any genuine interest, but it was better than conscription for Vietnam. Thankfully, the Whitlam government came along in 1972, and I could safely drop out of uni to take up intermittent pub work, or work waiting tables, or labouring, or whatever else looked like easy money for a while. I didn’t have a clue about what I really wanted to do with my life. In fact, apart from my disastrous first marriage—childless, thank heavens—I don’t think I took a damn thing seriously for the rest of the seventies.
Bernard . . . Well, I don’t suppose he had his life planned out exactly either. But deep in his gloomy dreams he must have yearned for authority. He could see the world going to pot even as he emerged into it. And like many a long-suffering conservative all around the world in those wild and free days, no doubt he was even then plotting his revenge.
It was a while coming, but oh lord, when it did come . . .
NINE
Another day, another basement.
I was becoming a connoisseur of them—and this one, I had to admit, was much better than the first. No bare walls or dirt floor or dingy light bulb. This room was large and carpeted and well lit, with comfortable couches and a bathroom off to one side. There was even a studded leather bar in the corner, vintage 1970s. The shelves behind it were empty, alas, but the wall did at least boast a neon beer sign. (‘Brisbane Bitter’ it said, which to my knowledge hasn’t been brewed in several decades.)
It was someone’s snooker room. Sans table. Which was fine, really, because there was no one down there for me to shoot pool with, apart from Nancy Campbell (sans burqa), and I doubt that she would have been interested. Not that I would have trusted her with a cue in her hand anyway.
And where was this place, you ask, interrogators dear?
Good question.
It was the same old story. The men who carried out the ambush were all masked with balaclavas. (I’m talking about the second ambush here, the one in which the AFP were the ambushees, not the ambushers. Ludicrous, really—I don’t think even back in the bushranger days had one road cutting ever seen so much action.) Then, in all the shooting and screaming and confusion, me and the naked Nancy Campbell found ourselves bundled into the back of the van (the AFP van, now appropriated, not the postal van) and driven at breakneck speed for maybe half an hour to who knows where. They’d put bags over our heads right from the start. Professionals, these boys.
At the end it seemed that we pulled into a garage. Then we were hurried through a house and down some stairs and, when the bags came off, there was the ‘Brisbane Bitter’ sign to greet me. And five men, dressed in civilian garb, but still in balaclavas, still with their guns. They dumped some clothes on the floor for my burqa-less friend, and then left, locking the door behind them. All throughout I’d been yelling questions at them—who were they, what did they want, what the fuck was going on? Not one of them had spoken a word.
So there we were. Me and my would-be executioner.
‘Well then,’ I said, after prowling about the room for a time, and verifying that there was no escape, no alcohol, and nothing else to do but talk. ‘Nancy.’
She was slumped in a beanbag. (This room was strictly retro.) The clothes they had given her
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